


To Die Like a Hero / Mourir Comme un Héro

by So_Late_Into_the_Night



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Gay, Homosexual, I am sorry there is homophobia, M/M, Poor Babey, Sad, but the hot RAF man is a fuckwad, explanation of death, mlm, queer, there’s a hot RAF man, we love the captain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/So_Late_Into_the_Night/pseuds/So_Late_Into_the_Night
Summary: The penalty for being caught in a homosexual act, or even suspected of it, is awful. Is it better to face it, or to control one’s own death and to die like a hero?·Based off a prompt by TealTears on AO3 (scribe-elderho-tan on Tumblr), who suggested that Cap may have killed himself to avoid the persecution and punishment for being homosexual. It did hurt a little to write this, but it helped me face my own experiences of self-harm and suicide attempts, and forced me to recognise that I cannot be sure of becoming a ghost, and so should be very careful.I would also like to add that, while writing this, I had not seen any of series two of “Ghosts” (I add this note in case series two comes out before I finish publishing this).Edit: the Captain did not in fact serve in Africa. He has no Africa Star (a military medal awarded to soldiers who served in WWII Africa). I wrote this before doing my research properly.
Relationships: Kitty/Thomas Thorne, The Captain (Ghosts TV 2019)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 69





	1. Trigger Warning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TealTears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TealTears/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick trigger warning.

_Please read this warning._

I insert this trigger warning before this story as it deals _very_ heavily with mental illness, depression, self-harm, and suicide, along with graphic descriptions of self-harm cuts. Please, if mentions of these things affect you badly, do not read on.

I have struggled with depression myself for a considerable amount of time, and have both self-harmed and attempted suicide. I am doing better now, but I mention these things so that it can be known that I do write from experience in my description of the Captain’s mental illness, and I have tried to write it as it felt for me at the time. Notwithstanding all that, I must add that mental illness is different for every person who experiences it, and there is a massive probability that people who have also struggled with these things will read this fic and think, _Well, that is nothing like how it was for me!_ I recognise this, and apologise in advance. I can only write what I know, but it is important to note that I do actually know what it feels like to be depressed and suicidal; I am not simply making it up.

All that said, I am quite proud of how this turned out. If you still want to read it, thank you!

I must credit TealTears (scribe-elderho-tan on Tumblr) with the idea. It was their idea to write a fic of Cap using suicide to escape prosecution[1] for his homosexuality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. It could be a prison sentence, or hormonal therapy (chemical castration). Alan Turing, for example, was given a choice between the two. [back]


	2. Wing-Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Captain arrives at Button House, in low spirits, and meets the man Heather has to stay.

“Captain!” Heather cried, running out of the house. He dropped his bags and caught her, his arms under hers, and swung her around. She felt heavier than usual, but not because she weighed more.

“My favourite spinster. How are you?”

He kissed her on the cheek, picking his bags up again.

“Fine, thanks! I have a friend staying… hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Can I have my usual room in the East Wing?”

“Of course! Above mine, as you like it.”

The Captain told Heather that he would be down for dinner presently, then headed up the stairs and took the turning to his room.

“Good evening, sir.”

The Captain turned and raised an eyebrow. The man standing opposite him took in his army uniform with an appreciative nod.

“Military? Nice. Any campaign medals?”

“France and Germany star,” the Captain said vaguely. “Sorry, who are you?”

“Wing-Commander[1] John Gorham, at your service.”

The Captain saluted. “Sir! Well… how do you know Heather?”

“She was at school with my sister Tara.”

“Very nice,” the Captain said, really wishing he could just put his bags down in his room and have some time alone. He felt rotten.

Wing-Commander John Gorham walked up to the Captain and inspected the shoulders of his jacket. John’s fingers played with the three pips on the épaulettes as he spoke.

“Captain. A decent rank.[2]”

The Captain nodded, swallowing thickly. John let the pad of his thumb brush along the Captain’s medals.

“You fought in the second War.”

The Captain nodded again. He felt his heart tenderly speed up, and wondered why that always happened when his torso was being touched by a man. John fingered the Captain’s lapel pins.

“Ooh, and an RE man! I have always wanted to meet an engineer.”

The Captain smiled wearily; he was very confused by the whole situation, and found it hard to summon the motivation to bother figuring it out. In general, he liked the fact that a man’s entire military career could be read from the various parts of his uniform — it made a very nice system, and he loved systems — but it made him a little uncomfortable to feel himself taken apart so easily by the Wing-Commander. His uniform, obviously, showed nothing personal; at least not _officially_. The Captain knew that someone really observant… Poirot, or Holmes, perhaps… would be well able to tell more about him than his rank and so on from his uniform. He knew that his boots were scuffed from marching, and his trousers worn from use. His suspenders had a stain on them from a mug of tea that had dripped when the officer who had had the bunk above his had leant off the edge of his bed to speak. One of his buttons had fallen off, and had been sewn back on by his sister, using pink thread, which had been all that she had to hand. And, of course, there was the slight bulge of extra cloth around his left forearm. The Captain felt far too vulnerable.

Suddenly, John stepped away, nodding briskly.

“You must be a brave man, sir.”

“I try.”

“I will see you at dinner, Captain,” John said, bowing and exiting down the stairs. It suddenly occurred to the Captain that John was not wearing his RAF kit, but instead wore a plain white shirt, with some neat shoes, a sleeveless cardigan, and the trousers half of a smart black suit.

The Captain shook his head and went into his room, slamming the door behind him. The fire was blazing. He put his bags on the bed, then sat at the dresser, looking at himself in the mirror. He removed his jacket and Sam Browne, and unbuttoned his left shirt cuff. He took his penknife (a fancy multitool item, which he had been given by a Swiss soldier he knew) out of his pocket, and placed it on the desk in front of him. Slowly and carefully, he rolled his shirt sleeve up to above his elbow and considered the length of lightweight cotton[3] wrapped tightly around his arm. He removed the safety pins holding the cloth in place, and unrolled it gently. It was dark, almost black, so the wet darkness which stained the sections nearer his arm barely showed. He winced when the last piece of cloth came off the skin of his inner forearm, as it was stuck harshly to the cuts and did not want to be torn away.

He made his way slowly to the bathroom and put the plug in the sink. After that, he ran the basin partway full of hot water and soaked the dark cotton in it. He scrubbed hard at it between his hands, occasionally stopping to lather more soap on from the bar which sat on edge of the sink. When the water had turned a sickening shade of yellow, verging on orange, he let it out of the basin and put the cloth on top of the fire guard, in front of the flames.

From his bag he fetched a foot-square section of plain, undyed linen, ran a new sinkful of hot water, soaked the linen in it, and began to tend to his cuts. They were ugly and raw. The thing that always amazed him was the way that the two parts of flesh peeled away from each other, as though somebody had slit the top of a jelly.

The cuts were bleeding again. He blamed the fact that he had torn the cotton away too hastily. Letting his arm lie in the sink of hot water as he gently sponged at it with his cloth, he watched the small trails of blood seep out of his cuts and into the basin. It floated eerily. They were not painful, but they stung like anything. He took from his pocket a small bottle of iodine[4] solution and poured some onto the linen. He took a deep breath, and then dabbed at his cuts. The iodine intensified the stinging sensation, and the Captain had to concentrate on reciting military ranks very loudly in his head so as to succeed in staying quiet. He tilted his head back a little and looked up, away from the cuts.

He gave the arm one last rinse, then dried it with a small hand towel of flannel and rebandaged with the cotton, which had dried from the fire. He snapped the safety pins into place, unrolled his sleeve, buttoned his cuff up, pulled his jacket on, did it up, added his Sam Browne belt, and headed downstairs towards the fantastic smell of pheasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Wing-Commander is a rank in the Royal Air Force, in line with Lieutenant Colonel, which is two ranks above Captain (Major is between them). [back]
> 
> 2\. Everything that John reads from the Captain’s uniform can indeed be read from it. [back]
> 
> 3\. Cotton is good material for bandages. [back]
> 
> 4\. A disinfectant, which stings when applied. [back]


	3. Captain Gorgeous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ghosts watch the events of Heather’s evening party, and have a few opinions of their own.

The ghosts followed Heather out of the house and looked at the friend of hers who was making his way up the drive of Button House.

“Oh, Thomas, it’s the army man you like!” Kitty gushed. “I’m so glad. I _do_ like him.”

“The Captain,” Thomas said instantly, skipping along and visibly perking up.

“You likes him, Kitty?” Mary asked. “But he’s all… orders and noises.”

“His noises are endearing,” Thomas said, peeved. He stalked along beside Heather, hands clasped behind his back.

“Captain!” she said.

“My favourite spinster. How are you?”

The Captain kissed Heather on the cheek, and Thomas scowled, his face very close to theirs as he peered in and wished that it were _him_ being kissed. By anyone, really.

“Fine, thanks!” Heather said in a jolly way. “I have a friend staying… hope you don’t mind.”

“ _I_ mind,” Lady Button commented snidely. “Never have I seen such —”

“Shh!” Kitty exclaimed, trying to hear what the Captain was saying.

“But he’s _awful_!”

“In fairness, he is,” Thomas acquiesced. “I caught him with his hands down his trousers earlier. Well, I say _caught_ … he couldn’t see me….” By the time the resulting argument had been sorted out, the Captain was on his way up to his room in the East Wing, and had encountered the absolute _scoundrel_ who Heather had to stay. Kitty, Thomas and Mary had followed him up onto the landing.

“Good evening, sir,” Wing-Commander Gorham said, and Thomas amused himself and the girls by standing behind him and pretending to stab him.

“You’re awfully naughty,” Kitty giggled from where she and Mary stood behind the Captain.

“I try, madam,” Thomas said, grinning and bowing. As Kitty turned to whisper something to Mary, he again saw her profile and had to concentrate extremely hard to tear his thoughts away from her lips. He didn’t _really_ love her, he told himself. She was just very pretty. And besides, the _Captain_ was on a whole other level of beauty. Thomas had long since nicknamed him Captain Gorgeous (much to Lady Button’s annoyance), since they had never actually heard his name mentioned and, well, Gorgeous was an apt description.

Thomas focused again on what the living people were doing. Gorham had got awfully close to the Captain and had a hand on the military medals on that beautiful strong chest.

“You fought in the second War.”

The Captain nodded, looking nervous. He was standing stock-still and staring straight at Gorham’s mouth, expertly avoiding eye contact. Kitty suddenly noticed how quiet the Captain and Gorham had gone, and the girls and Thomas rushed forward to hear what was being said.

“Ooh, and an RE man!” Gorham said, his smile glittering. The Captain’s eyes were still on Gorham’s mouth. “I have always wanted to meet an engineer.”

Mary frowned. “Is the Captain…” she began, but she trailed off.

“Captain Gorgeous,” Thomas supplied.

“Is he in loves with men?” Mary asked hesitantly.

Thomas yelped.

“You think he’s a sodomite[1]?” he hissed.

“Dirty talk,” Kitty scolded.

“You have a problem with it?” Thomas asked softly, leaning away.

“Not at all,” Kitty told him breezily. “Just… reducing it to the dirty bit when I’ve seen men kiss each other in the most romantic way… seems wrong to me.”

“You’ve seen… _when_?” Thomas demanded.

“Oh, at parties. Between when I died and when you did.”

“Captain Gorgeous does not look happy,” Mary said, and she was right. The Captain looked exceedingly uncomfortable with Gorham’s attentions, and was beginning to squirm the tiniest bit.

“He does not,” Thomas admitted.

Gorham stepped away from the Captain, took one last glance at him, and nodded. “You must be a brave man, sir.”

“I try.”

The Captain smiled softly in a quasi-genuine way that twisted Thomas’s heart and made him feel as though he would happily drop to his knees and perform whatever deed[2] would be necessary to make the ridiculously uptight Captain blaspheme out loud. This train of thought occupied him for some time, and he suddenly realised that the Captain had gone into his room, followed by Kitty and Mary, and slammed the door in Thomas’s face.

Affronted, Thomas bowed his head and followed them in. He stopped short. Mary and Kitty were peering at the Captain’s bare forearm, which was riddled with red streaks, as though from a cat-o’-nine-tails, but worse. The skin around the cuts was pink with blood inside, as the Captain’s body desperately tried to heal itself.

“Oh, no. Lord no,” Thomas said. “Girls, you shouldn’t be seeing this, and neither should I. This is private.”

“Private?” Mary scoffed. “He can’t sees us.”

“I don’t mind us watching kissing, even copulating, but this… _no_.”

Thomas had no idea why he was defending the Captain, but no matter, he thought: it must be done. Gentleman’s honour.

“How did he get those?” Kitty asked Thomas, wide-eyed.

Thomas stared at Kitty and Mary as the Captain went into the bathroom and filled the sink.

“You really don’t know, do you?” he asked. They shook their heads. “Oh lord. He… I don’t know how to explain this. He cut himself.” Mary frowned, and Kitty looked vaguely confused. “On purpose,” Thomas clarified. “Because he is very, very sad. Likely he did it with this knife here which he leaves on his table… is this a dagger I see before me?[3]”

“Oh lord,” Kitty whispered, a quiet echo of Thomas. “You’re right. That _is_ private. We must leave.” She grabbed Mary’s hand, and Thomas’s, and pulled them both downstairs, where they found Heather laying the table for three.

A pheasant, roasted beautifully, sat on the table, adorned with potatoes and carrots. Mary nodded appreciatively, and Kitty gasped at the low-waisted halterneck frock that Heather wore. She was in her mid-thirties, but scrubbed up very well. Her blonde hair was scooped up into a bun in the style of that beautiful Aubrey Hepburn.

Gorham entered and bowed to Heather. “Miss Button,” he said, kissing her hand.

“Lady, actually,” Heather corrected him, smiling, as she sat down at the head of the table.

“My mistake,” Gorham said, and took his place to her right. “This is a beautiful house,” he continued, looking around.

“Isn’t it. Family home, you know. Supposed to be haunted by my greatgrandmother!”

“How did she die?”

“Pushed from the window because she had a lover outside of her marriage, supposedly. Probably not true, though.” Heather shrugged.

“It was her _husband_ who had —” Kitty began in protest, but Mary shushed her.

“They can’t hears us. There be no point.”

“Awful,” Gorham said conversationally, leaning in, chin on hand.

“Yes,” Heather agreed. Thomas could see her recognising that Gorham’s being too close was deliberate, and she stood up. “I do wonder where the Captain has got to… ah, speak of the Devil, here he is.”

Captain Gorgeous walked into the room. He was fully dressed again, but Thomas noticed that he did not move his left arm as much as his right when he walked, and when Heather touched it gently to get his attention he winced. They both sat down, and Thomas, Mary and Kitty took three of the other seats: Thomas beside the Captain, Kitty on the other side of him, and Mary opposite him, beside Gorham.

“Dinner looks amazing, Heath,” the Captain said.

“Thanks, darling. Shot it myself.” She began to serve the boys.

“Really?” Gorham asked, surprised.

“Shocking, isn’t it,” Heather said, her words thickly coated in sarcasm.

“I didn’t know a woman could —”

“Oh, please,” barked the Captain, “Heather’s a better shot than me at close range, and I’ve served in the military.”

“You flatter me,” Heather told him cheekily, pretending to slap him. He grinned back at her.

“Where were you during the War, Captain?” Gorham asked as they began to eat.

“I was one of the Desert Rats for a bit, and I was back in Britain for some of it too, disarming bombs. Engineer, you know,” the Captain said, all politeness but also not seeming truly comfortable with the situation.

“Desert Rats! Under the command of Monty, what?”

“Exactly,” the Captain said shortly.

“And what about you, Heather?” Gorham asked.

“Nothing too interesting, I’m afraid. I worked at a radio factory in Milton Keynes[4]. Not much else a woman in her early twenties could _do_ , apart from being a Land Girl or helping the Air Force by being a pencil-pusher, and I didn’t really fancy either of those.”

The Captain grinned to himself, and Thomas decided that it must be because Gorham was in the Air Force and Heather had just implied that she did not like the Air Force.

“A _radio_ factory?” Gorham pressed.

“Mm.”

Heather did not seem to want to say anything else on the topic, and so the conversation strayed to music.

“Captain, you must tell us, what music do you like?” Gorham asked. Thomas felt sure that Gorham was getting on everybody’s nerves.

“Gilbert and Sullivan[5],” the Captain snapped.

Gorham looked at him blankly. “Sorry, I don’t —”

“Opera writers of the nineteenth century. Bloody marvellous. Oh, and I love Vera Lynn.”

“All soldiers do,” Gorham said condescendingly. The Captain ignored him.

After dinner, Heather poured out drinks for the three of them, and they migrated to the piano, which Heather was able to play wonderfully.

“Do _The Entertainer_ , Heath,” the Captain said, downing half his glass of champagne in one go.

She nodded and happily played Scott Joplin’s classic piece.

“She’s a lovely woman,” Gorham commented. Thomas was only half-listening, as he was mostly occupied with trying to smell the orange-flavoured Irish whiskey that Heather had poured for herself.

“She is,” the Captain agreed.

“How do you know her?”

“Met her at a market once, we got talking, it went from there. Now we’re best friends.”

“And that’s all?” Gorham asked.

“Hmm?”

“You’d never think of marrying her?”

“Goodness no. Heather wants to stay unmarried.”

“And you, my dear sir? Are you the marrying kind?”

“Afraid not, no. My first love has always been my service in the army. And my platonic love for Heather, of course. I’m married to my work, as it were.”

“Yes… I see…” Gorham said, and Thomas felt the situation getting worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. In Thomas’s time, people who engaged in non-procreative sex were known as sodomites. [back]
> 
> 2\. Ahem. [back]
> 
> 3\. “Is this a dagger I see before me”: Lady Macbeth, in the Scottish Play. [back]
> 
> 4\. Bletchley Park. Look it up. [back]
> 
> 5\. The guys behind the Major-General song. [back]


	4. Grim Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, please don’t read this chapter if homophobia will trigger you. It’s vicious. There are slurs.

It was late in the evening when the Captain was finally getting himself to bed. He had undressed to his shirt and underwear and was splashing his face from the water in the basin when he heard a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called, not caring if Heather saw him partially disrobed. She’d seen worse when they had got totally wankered-drunk in ’46 anyway. Those were the days, really. One could drink an inordinate amount of Bolshevik vodka without a pesky Wing-Commander hanging —

John entered.

“Captain,” he said idly. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and several of his shirt buttons were undone. There was a hint of his chest muscles.

“Wing-Commander,” the Captain returned, tired, walking back into his bedroom from the bathroom. He was fed up, and the cloth on his arm was itching to make way for a blade.

“You’re a handsome man, Captain,” John said.

“Thank you?”

“I dare say you’ve had a fair few lovers in your time. You certainly deserve them.”

“Wrong, I’m afraid, sir. Never had one.”

“Not even when you were sixteen?”

“Afraid not, sir.”

The Captain suddenly felt a hand on his right wrist. John leaned forward to whisper in his ear, stepping in so close that his legs brushed the Captain’s.

“You called me sir.”

“You rank higher than me.” He glared straight ahead, but John’s fingers touched the Captain’s thigh.

The Captain had a sudden realisation. He had _heard_ of men like that! Indeed, hadn’t two of his men been caught cavorting? Awful business.

“Call me sir again,” John whispered. He was standing almost behind the Captain, his chin on the Captain’s shoulder.

The Captain turned his head to the side, and his lips almost touched John’s.

Awful business.

“Yes, sir,” he breathed.

“You are _beautiful_ when you let me pull rank on you, Captain,” John whispered. He wound their fingers together.

“Well, sir, I can hardly help it,” the Captain said reasonably. “The whole of the armed forces would collapse if none of us had respect for our superiors.”

“You misunderstand me,” John said.

The Captain frowned, letting his head lean back as he thought. “You like a man in uniform?”

“I respect a man in uniform, yes,” John said softly.

The Captain harrumphed to himself. He had no inclination to put up with such farcical time-wasting behaviour, especially with its implications of, well, sodomy.

“You want me to put the uniform back on then, if you like it so much?” he asked.

“I admire you in your army clothes,” John told the Captain, turning to face him, “yet somehow I admire you more out of them.”

His hands were at the Captain’s jaw, and the Captain’s dominant thought was that it was not right because the Captain was not in that way inclined.

“You are a beautiful man, Captain,” John breathed, leaning in. Their faces were very close.

“Again, thank you,” said the Captain stiffly, contemplating how much longer he would have to put up with John’s advances. He briefly wondered whether he should allow them at all, but dismissed the thought as he was not keen on talking back to a superior officer.

“Am I?”

“Beg pardon?” the Captain asked.

“Am. I. Good-looking?” John pressed.

The Captain chuckled awkwardly. “I suppose so. Yes, you are rather.”

“Say it, Captain. That is an order,” John breathed into the Captain’s ear.

“You’re good-looking,” the Captain said blankly.

“ _No_ , I’m beautiful, _officer_.”

“Yes. Yes, quite right. You _are_ beautiful,” the Captain babbled, more uncomfortable by the minute.

Suddenly he was on his back on his bed, and his chest was aching from having been shoved, hard. It was painful.

John was standing over him, and it was not sexy. It was powerful, and cruel, and very very dangerous.

“You disgust me, man,” he said. “Filthy dirty faggot1. Queer. Look at you. How dare you come on to me like that? I beg your pardon how _dare_ you?”

“What?” The Captain blinked back the tears that were rapidly forming in his eyes, but it was no good; he was sobbing.

“Oh, good christ, you’re crying too, you fairy,” John scoffed. “Could you _be_ any more sickeningly effeminate?”

“But I’m not even — I never came on — how?”

“You called me beautiful. Revolting word to use for another man,” John said, and he certainly looked revolted. He was also quickly buttoning his shirt up again.

“You called me the same thing first!” the Captain protested. “And you ordered me to call you it!”

“You think the judge will believe that?”

“Judge?” the Captain asked, faltering.

“Oh yes,” John crowed. “I am reporting you, boy. You are illegal now. You can and will be put on trial.”

“What?”

“Now is not a good time to be a homosexual. You know that. You must have read about that professor in Manchester2. What was his name?”

“Turing,” the Captain said thickly. He _had_ read about Turing, but not on purpose. Only in the papers.

“Ah, so you do know!”

“John, why are you doing this?” the Captain asked miserably. “We both know I did not come on to you.”

“You really want to know?” John asked, leaving.

The Captain nodded tearfully.

“To get you out of the way. Heather’s too fond of you, and I want a pop at her. Oh, and it’s Wing-Commander Gorham to you.”

The door closed with a click, and with John on the other side of it.

“And she is Lady Button to you,” the Captain said quietly, taking his shirt off, as he located his knife, still dirty with the stains of previous occasions.

What must be done must be done, he thought, cutting himself open again with most of the strength he could muster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I’m sorry, Captain. back
> 
> 2\. This was all that Alan Turing was publicly known as for more than fifty years after the war ended. back


	5. Taking Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please please please proceed with caution. Extreme mentions of self harm, homophobia and suicide. Call it spoilers, but I would rather that than trigger a mental health drop in someone. Oh also, sorry it took so long!

“It’s such fun being at a ball, though!” Kitty said, smiling and swaying from side to side. “I went once, when I was sixteen, in the most beautiful pale yellow robe à l’anglaise. All of the officers wanted to dance with me!”

One of Thomas’s strongest opinions in the world was that the colour yellow was absolutely made to be worn by dark-skinned women. He could well imagine Kitty being stunning in it. They were in the Captain’s room, discussing social events.

“Yes,” he said. “I went as a woman once. Miss Therese Thorne. I had an empire line gown in pale red silk, with a shawl of dark blue. I was gorgeous. A short curly fringe was all the rage, and we wrapped the rest of my hair up in a turban. The officers loved me as well!”

“Well, you do seem to like military men,” Kitty said. “Lady Heather’s little Captain rather takes your fancy, doesn’t he?”

“Obviously,” Thomas retorted. “His moustache!”

“Honestly, I have no idea what all of the fuss about moustaches is,” Kitty said. “I much prefer my men clean-shaven, apart from sideburns.”

“I have sideburns,” Thomas said, without thinking.

Kitty did not make a flippant remark in reply. She looked meaningfully at him.

“I —” Thomas began.

“Thomas —” Kitty said at the same time. He indicated for her to continue, and she did. “Thomas, I’m not prepared to… to be courted. But I have no aversion to a more secretive, more physical relationship.”

“What are you saying, Kitty?” he asked.

“Will you kiss me?” she whispered.

“Oh!” Thomas said. “I would be delighted. Come here, then.”

Kitty approached him slowly, and she was beautiful. She calmly and shyly put her arms around his neck. He held her waist and leaned in, tilting his head to the side.

“I’ve never done this with a boy before,” Kitty said, her mouth about an inch away from Thomas’s.

“My dear madam, are you sure you want this?” Thomas asked. “I wouldn’t want to be the first boy you kissed, if I would be an unsatisfactory contender.”

“Well, it’s you, Robin, or Humphrey, so yes,” Kitty said, raising her eyebrows at him.

“Fair enough,” Thomas said, and kissed her.

They stayed there, kissing, with their arms around each other, for some time. It was very tame and very sweet. Thomas quite liked it. Kitty was extremely naïve about it, and kept pulling away to kiss him on the cheek, which he liked.

“Beautiful boy,” she said, giggling into his neck as she embraced him.

“You’re very pretty too,” Thomas said. “You’re very very pretty.”

She kissed him again, and he fought the desire to giggle, as he felt it would be a little unseemly. The kiss intensified and Thomas pulled Kitty in by her waist, ever so gentle.

The door banged open, and they jumped apart, before remembering that anyone able to move doors wouldn’t be able to see them. It was the Captain, and he looked a mess. He closed and bolted the door, and then burst into tears.

“Goodness,” said Kitty.

“Fuck,” the Captain said, crying. “Fuck.”

Thomas went to put his hands over Kitty’s ears, and she slapped him away.

“Oh god,” the Captain said.

He was hurriedly shrugging his jacket, suspenders, and shirt off, and removing his bandage, and then the knife was out and his arm was very quickly a mess of red streaks. The blood was going everywhere, and he was then panicking about that, so he went into the bathroom and let the tap run over his arm as he continued to tear into himself with a blade. He made a couple of silent howls as the tears poured down his face.

Eventually he calmed down and had a bath (and Thomas didn’t even cast a sultry glance between the Captain’s thighs, as he usually would have). Thomas and Kitty sat together on his bed as he bathed, and averted their eyes as he dressed again, including his bandage. They followed him downstairs. He looked neat and tidy.

“Heather,” he called.

“Mm?” she said, wandering in from the kitchen, oven gloves on. “What is it, Captain?”

“You know how I told you I was at a showing of _Pirates of Penzance_ 1?”

“I do know.”

“That was a lie.” Heather frowned, and he continued. “I’ve been sentenced to chemical castration for gross indecency,” the Captain said, his gaze dropping, and Thomas could see he was barely able to say it.

“What?”

Heather dropped the gloves on the floor and hugged the Captain. He embraced her too, gently.

“There now, Heath,” he said. “It’s not too bad.”

“It _is_ , Captain,” she said desperately. “It’s not fair, at all. It’s not fair. Those drugs ruin a man and his health. Did they even offer you prison time instead2?”

The Captain laughed sadly. “No. No, I’m afraid Gorham was quite insistent on it being the hormonal treatment.”

“Gorham? He was there?” Heather asked, shocked.

“He, my dear, was the star witness for the prosecution. And the one who accused me of making a move with him, homosexually.”

“The _bitch_!” Heather said. “God, Captain, I am so sorry for ever letting him near you. You shouldn’t have made the move, but he should definitely not have reported you for it.”

“Heath — what?” the Captain asked, moving away from her. “I didn’t! I’m not a — I didn’t even!”

“Oh, Captain, don’t try that,” Heather said, shaking her head and laughing slightly. “I know as well as you do that you’re a queer.”

“That is untrue,” the Captain gasped, backing further away.

“For the love of god, Captain!” Heather said loudly. “Every time any man with the slightest hint of muscle in his shoulders or an implication of an organ in his trousers comes within twenty feet of you, everybody for a mile around can sense your arousal! I never mentioned it because I assumed you didn’t want me to bring up anything illegal about you, but don’t you dare insult my intelligence, after all I have done for you, by suggesting that I may be false in my assessment of your feelings for good-looking men. Or even ugly men. You’re such a fucking skank I bet you’d let any of them take you in the night.”

“Wh — what?” the Captain stammered. He was bent over a little, his firm military posture gone. He looked as though he had been kicked in the stomach.

“How many of them have you allowed to screw you?” Heather snapped.

“I beg your pardon?” the Captain whispered.

“The gardener? Little Jimmy from down the post office? How many men and boys have you forced yourself on?” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I refuse to believe that Gorham was the first.”

Thomas felt Kitty’s hand steal into his.

“How long have you thought this of me?” the Captain asked. His voice cracked.

“Oh, long enough,” Heather said, her voice even and steady. Her tone softened. “I never thought less of you for it.”

“But you refuse to believe me when I say I did no such thing to Gorham.”

“He _is_ handsome. I hardly blame you, Captain. But I am insulted that you will not admit it to me.”

“I did not make a pass,” the Captain shouted. He turned and ran up the stairs, crying noisily. Kitty and Thomas followed him, hand in hand for emotional support.

They watched the Captain walk around his room, wringing his hands and smacking himself on the head open-palmed. They watched him pick up his knife and put it down again six seconds later. They watched him write a note. They watched him remove a small bottle from his bag. They watched him pick up his swagger stick, hold it, sit at the desk, take the pill from the bottle, and die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The opera his favourite song is from. back
> 
> 2\. Turing for example was offered the choice.back


End file.
